


I Don't Care About Anything (Keep Tryin')

by phenylic (tascioni)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Fashion & Couture, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-03
Updated: 2011-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tascioni/pseuds/phenylic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story about fashion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Care About Anything (Keep Tryin')

**Author's Note:**

> this is completely unbeta'd and was written for [this prompt](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/19632.html?thread=47319216#t47319216) on inception_kink. Arthur doesn't hate Eames' clothes. He actually picked a lot of his wardrobe. He just thinks that bright colors, bold patterns, and looser cuts look fabulous on Eames.

This is a story about fashion. We've all heard this story before, but that's no reason not to hear it again.

↯

As with all stories, this one has a vague beginning, a convoluted middle, and a neat finale.

In the beginning (of this particular story, as these two have had a lot of varied, colorful beginnings), Eames only dressed in cheap “Buy 4 Get 1 Free!” button-downs and not-actually-cotton cotton pants. He dressed as such for two reasons: 1. breaking into dreamshare was not as easy as everyone made it out to be, seeing as no one was even supposed to know it existed; therefore, money was hard to come by, so one just had to make do and be K-Mart smart, and 2. he was perfectly comfortable in them; he grew up in things like these.

Arthur, on the other hand, wore designers like they were going out of style. He came onto jobs in Zegna and Burberry and Versace and had more than one lint brush on his person at any given time. If asked (though no one ever does, which is a total travesty), Arthur, too, would have given two reasons for his particular clothing inclination: 1. you dress how you are; therefore, if you dress smart, you are smart, and 2. what’s the point of being a thief if you can’t enjoy your spoils? He, being the clever thing he is, had gotten into dreamshare early and was happily enjoying the value of the dollar.

The once-upon-a-time for this story, then, is less “Once upon a time, in a far away kingdom,” and more “Once upon a time, in the unimpressive, deserted commercial spaces of Phoenix, Arizona.” Well, once upon a time, in the unimpressive, deserted commercial spaces of Phoenix, Arizona, there was an Arthur and there was an Eames. There was also one other person, who really isn’t that important (to the story. He was important to the job, of course.), but for story’s sake, we’ll call him Cobb.

Cobb had worked with Arthur several times before and found that he quite liked Arthur’s style. Cobb had also worked a few odd jobs with Eames and found that he also liked Eames’ style. Really, thought Cobb. This was a no-brainer.

Now, Eames and Arthur had worked together before--just once, but together, nonetheless. Cobb didn’t know this. Then again, Cobb didn’t know many things, so it’s not really his fault that Eames and Arthur were better suited for the seedier, more secretive kind of life than he was.

In any case, he was very polite and introduced Arthur and Eames to each other as any unknowing, unassuming person would. It was only then that Cobb noticed that Arthur was looking at Eames quite disdainfully. Arthur was not very subtle about it either, as he shook Eames’ hand and looked him up and down, the expression on his face growing more pinched by the second.

 _Wow,_ thought Cobb. _That’s rather rude._

And then Arthur had opened his mouth and said, “If I’d known you were taking your clothes from Goodwill, I would’ve wired you money months ago.”

 _Wow,_ thought Cobb. _Wow._

He would have stepped in, politely inserting himself as the amiable diplomat to Arthur’s cantankerous ambassador. “Sorry, Eames,” he would have said. “He’s just had a very long day.”

“Pardon me,” said Eames mildly. “If it offends you that much, then--”

Cobb never knew what _then_ entailed because Eames started stripping, starting with his belt.

“Whoa,” said Cobb, while Arthur looked unimpressed. “Eames, pull up your pants.”

“I don’t think Arthur really wants me to,” Eames argued. “I think he’d much prefer it if I took everything off, isn’t that right?”

“No,” said Arthur and Cobb in unison with equal fervor.

“Jesus,” said Arthur. “Keep your pants on.” to which Eames grinned, but did as he was told.

Meanwhile, Cobb frowned in the way that people do when they realize they’ve probably missed something rather significant and said, “Do you two know each other?” The looks the two of them exchanged said a lot, including but not limited to “Yes.”

↯

The middle then, goes something like this:

Somewhere along the line, Arthur started stripping Eames out of his clothes as a form of recreation. Whether this, er, activity started before, during or after their job with Cobb is neither here nor there as it’s not the important part. The important part is when Arthur started dressing Eames.

It started off with little things, because never let it be said that Arthur wasn’t a subtle man. He (pointedly) suggested which ties Eames should wear, when Eames could be arsed into wearing one in the first place. So, more often than not, Arthur dictated what kind of shoes Eames should wear, because so what if Eames preferred to wear Air Jordans everywhere? The least he could do was be color-coordinated about it.

And so this continues, through the rest of the job with Cobb and onto other jobs with other people (and yet, they somehow always ended up back in Arizona--hot, dry and prickly Arizona). Eames would wake up, and Arthur would have Eames’ shoes ready with a twitch in his brow whenever his eyes landed on the whatever shirt Eames chose to offend him with that day.

“It’s not even that you don’t look good,” Arthur groused one day while Eames rubbed at a smudge of dirt on his right shoe. “It’s that you look good even though you shouldn’t.”

Eames looked up and smiled and said, “Oh, Arthur,” much too fond and exasperated than should be allowed. Arthur huffed and stepped back before he did something stupid like kiss Eames silly and demand that Eames just never wear clothes ever again. (Which, Eames would do, if Arthur asked. That was the scary part.)

“Tomorrow,” Arthur decided. “We’re going shopping, and we’re going to get you some decent clothes that will actually make you look like the person your trying to be instead of this wanna-be gangsta.”

“Gangsta,” Eames repeated, still with that annoying fond exasperation.

Arthur folded his arms across his chest and sighed.

↯

As promised, Arthur took Eames to the shops. It wasn’t exactly ideal, what with the city being mostly filled with strip malls with not an Armani or Tom Ford in sight, but Arthur persevered.

“You need a style,” he told Eames. “Otherwise, people won’t pay attention.”

“I don’t need attention,” Eames pointed out. “I’m blending in.”

“No, you’re not,” said Arthur. “You’re sticking out like somebody who’s trying too hard to fit in.”

Eames would have argued the point, but Arthur had already trotted off to the nearest respectable-looking custom-slash-secondhand suit shop, that wasn’t very respectable-looking at all. Eames eyed the mounted horse head at the front of the shop with more than a little hint of wariness as Arthur walked right up to the tailor and asked that Eames’ measurements be taken.

As the man wrapped his tape measure around every part of Eames’ body, Arthur moved from rack to rack, gingerly tugging out some prospective jacket or pants before shoving it away quickly and moving on. _Well,_ Eames thought, _at least this old man isn’t as creepy as he looks._

As the tailor rolled up his tape measure, he asked Eames what kind of suit he was interested in to which Eames shrugged and said, sagely, “Something that reflects my character.”

The man frowned at him and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Okay,” said Eames, because he didn’t want to be rude and say that he wasn’t actually all that interested.

“I’d like him to try some Tom Fords,” said Arthur, reappearing suddenly at Eames side. “Versace, too, maybe.” He looked at Eames, squinting in a way that made Eames want to make sure Cobb never came near them again. “And definitely some Etro, if you’ve got them.”

The man did, as it turned out. “Not many people have such taste,” the man told Arthur as he made Eames walk about and down the length of the store in a jacket too-tight and trousers too long. Arthur was nodding along as his eyes followed Eames, puzzled frown in place.

“Try something looser,” Arthur said. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”

“Ha ha,” said Eames, though he happily traded the jacket for a broader, more comfortable sleek grey blazer.

“That looks better,” said Arthur as Eames shrugged it on. And it did. Eames wasn’t a large man, per say, but he was broad and bulky, thick with hard muscle. The more tailored pieces made him seem pinched and shrunken, much like a harbor seal trying to hide itself in a clam shell. The blazer, on the other hand, while one size too large, softened him, somehow making him both more rugged and refined all at once. And still, it accented Eames’ broad shoulders, smoothing away the rough-cut edges like a painter’s stroke, while maintaining the strength that lay underneath.

Arthur swallowed and cleared his throat. “We’ll get that one,” he said. He refused to look Eames in the eye as he shoved an Etro into Eames’ hands and said, sharply, “Now try this.”

Eames, to his credit, obeyed without fuss.

↯

Arthur had always thought Etro was rather garish--tacky--everything overly patterned and textured to the point where his eyes wanted to roll into the back of his head due to overexertion.

But Eames.

Dear God.

Arthur licked his lips.

“That looks good,” Arthur said, staring at the combination of salmon paisley dress shirt, tweed jacket, and Eames’ grinning face. “We’ll take it all.”

The tailor raised an eyebrow, clearly not as impressed with the selection as Arthur was, but business was business, the customer was always right, etc.

He rang them up without any fanfare and politely thanked them for their visit.

↯

It ends, I suppose, in Mombasa.

In Mombasa, there is the kind of desert heat that is completely different that Arizona desert heat. There are stray cats everywhere that aren’t the least bit intimidated by the presence of humans, and there is also a lot of dust settling itself comfortably on everything it can reach. Arthur kind of hates it all, the same way he hates traffic and the sun at 1 in the afternoon. The same way he hates it when Eames leaves his shirts on the floor, or throws the silk in the wash instead of getting it dry-cleaned like he should.

Arthur hates Mombasa in the same vein that he hates the wet slip-slide of his skin against Eames’ chest when Eames presses against him and mouths at a scarred knot on Arthur’s shoulder; like how he hates when he leans against the coffee table, pulling Eames close, and the latest Etro catalogue sticks to his back and the ink of the pages bleed, just the slightest bit, into his skin; like the way Eames always comes home from wherever he goes, smelling like smoke and menthol, even though Arthur always turns into him anyway and breathes it in with big, lungfuls of air, regardless, because this is Eames and this is who Eames is and Arthur doesn’t really hate Mombasa at all because how could he.

He’s right at home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AND THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER.


End file.
